


What This Is Not

by mrasaki



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Secret Avengers, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Hawkguy, M/M, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:50:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrasaki/pseuds/mrasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It occurs to Clint, in the haze of afterglow less than two minutes later and more than a little too late, that fucking Coulson was a terrible idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What This Is Not

**Author's Note:**

> To make myself feel better about the utter lack of anything C/C to show for the last year despite flogging a longfic that I finally gave up on, I went with porn. Lots and lots of porn, because at that point, UGH PLOT. But, it turns out, I can't even do a PWP properly. #fail

It occurs to Clint, in the haze of afterglow less than two minutes later and more than a little too late, that fucking Coulson was a terrible idea.

Meaning the verb, not the adjective. Which, it was a _terrible_ idea, emphasis on the adjective very definitely needed. 

So that happened. Getting his ever-loving brains fucked out, Coulson behind him, pushing him into the wall in front of him, thick dust musty in his nose as he breathed – and oh yeah, Coulson's thick cock in his ass. He'd writhed until Coulson's grip on the back of his neck tightened, mashing his face into the wall in a way that he really ought to have hated. It was hard and rough, panting, scrabbling at the wall, leaving moist hand prints behind, by necessity fast with discovery just around the corner, and completely, utterly perfect. 

But it was a bad idea. So bad, Clint can't even begin to tally all the ways it was bad.

It isn't like Clint doesn't know how he gets in these situations. Nat, then Bobbi, and then Jessica all spelled it out for him in that very articulate, very detailed way that all the women in his life seem to be so very good at, but it basically boils down to Clint making terrible life choices for a myriad of scummy reasons, the top of the list being Clint being Clint. Kind of like those horror stories you read on the internet about running through the woods endlessly to discover you keep coming back to the same place.

But, Clint's sure it isn't going to happen again, one of the best lays of his life notwithstanding. It's just that it's guaranteed to be awkward. Of the people who comprise his team, half of them are his exes and the other half are two dudebros who barely acknowledge that he exists – except for that bit with Coulson pushing him up against a wall in Lebanon, that is – and anyway are so buddy-buddy from way back that they're practically bonded in an exclusive military brotherhood, haroo and all that.

(“It's _hoo-ah_ ,” Natasha corrects when he bring this up, “It’s an Army thing. Is there a reason we're having this conversation?” Clint can only stammer a reply, completely denying everything, which of course she doesn't believe for a second.)

It'd be awkward, is his point. 

The encounter happened out of the heat of the moment, after a firefight pinned down in a sandy bunker and barely getting out of it with their lives, going on adrenaline and heat and almost toxic levels of sugar.

It's not going to happen again.

That’s what he tells himself. This is just a thing he knows. Because when there is something that even he recognizes is a terrible idea, Clint does not actually do that idea.

Usually.

Clint thinks he deserves some points for that, at least.

**

He’s in Lagos, waiting on a massive shipment of a mind-control drug imported out of Southeast Asia. He's avoiding the window, in case somebody's keeping an eye out for a scruffy blonde guy who looks as if he fell face-first into a field of cacti then rolled in ground glass. His bow's been shined so many times it's nearly blinding, he's fiddled with his arrows til they're arranged alphabetically by the name of their functions. He's also wishing like hell he remembered to bring the charger for his Kindle so he could read, at least.

It's hot.

Clint usually prefers heat over cold, but Coulson's lounging there across the room like it's a balmy seventy-degree day in New York instead of some obscene triple digit with humidity levels that makes Clint feel like he's trapped in a sauna in hell. Lounging there, top two buttons of his shirt undone, cuffs rolled up to expose the elegant lines of his wrists. Clint swallows hard and looks back down at the ninja star he's folding out of a flier for a take-out place.

No more than three months ago before Coulson came crashing into his life (literally crashing, through the upper limits of Earth's atmosphere) Clint would've sworn up and down that he doesn't have a type more specific than _women_ and then maybe, _scary women who can break me in half with their little fingers_ , but now it apparently extends to middle-aged men who wear blandness like armor and wield competency like a knife. Even if Coulson looks a little ridiculous barefoot, his boots and socks kicked off as he reclines on the couch and taps away at a laptop, trying to figure out where the hell their contact's gone to ground, it's a _sexy_ ridiculous.

That's the other thing. Who wears a suit as if he's some mid-level hedge fund manager when on a covert mission in freakin' _Nigeria_? 

“You're sulking.” Coulson, not even looking up. Clint kinda wants to straddle him and mess up his hair.

“I am not sulking. I'm hot, and I'm bored.”

“I can feel you sulking from over here.”

“Again, hot. And bored.”

Coulson looks up at him then, really looks at him like he really hasn't since picking Clint up at the airport on a rusty moped that blatted thick clouds of global warming. That warm blue-green-hazel-whatever gaze, that does something funny to Clint's insides the longer he holds it.

The thing between them grows tense, thicker until Clint can practically touch it. Can in fact taste it, coppery salt on the tongue.

“And horny,” Coulson adds. It's not even a question. He's got the beginnings of a smirk that pisses Clint off and turns him on even more at the same time, because truth is, he's a soppy teenager, knees going weak over a certain somebody's ridiculously pretty eyes.

“You don't know me,” he mumbles, grasping at the tatters of his dignity and definitely wishing for his Kindle now, to cover the tenting in his pants.

That smirk grows into those eye crinkles, apparently Clint's kryptonite is _eye crinkles_. Coulson closes the laptop and raises an eyebrow, daring him to prove him wrong.

So...it happens again.

With Coulson still reclined on the couch, Clint over him. Coulson's fingers digging deep grooves into the flesh of Clint's ass, slipping a bit in Clint's sweat, helping him rock downwards. Clint doesn't want to know what Coulson found for lube; the man is scarily prepared all the time, but he doesn't want to imagine how or why the man would squirrel away KY into those endless hidden pockets of his. You can't say _breaking and entering_ either, because SHIELD R &D makes cutting edge stuff for that, and it's not something you can get over on aisle two – he loses his train of thought as Coulson gets him _right there_ , and only the knowledge that the walls are thin and they're supposed to be laying low, keeps him from swearing aloud.

Coulson pries one hand off Clint's ass with seeming effort to palm Clint's belly as if testing the texture of his skin. He runs his fingers along a long thin scar that runs practically into Clint's groin (knife-fight, Doctor Doom), and follows it down to – Clint makes a high noise and bucks into Coulson's hand, Coulson's cock nearly slipping out of him at the motion, as he finally, finally touches him and rubs a calloused thumb over the head.

**

So, Clint is zero for two.

Last time's the charm, he resolves. His resolution lasts all of a week and change – not that Clint's counting – before Coulson passes him and Natasha in the SHIELD mess hall and gives him that smile again, because the bastard knows exactly what it does to Clint.

Clint is only human, after all. 

He chokes on his Pepsi. When he gets done coughing up his lungs and wipes the soda dripping from his nose, he finds Nat staring at him speculatively and his face instantly goes an incriminating shade of tomato red. 

“You are a terrible liar,” she comments, even though he hasn't actually said anything. She sounds as if she could care less, but the way she jabs her fork at the limp broccoli on her plate with the intensity of a cat about to disembowel an oblivious mouse, ruins the effect. 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Clint says, feeling himself blush even more. “Uh, gottagotothebathroomthanksbye.”

He hears her tsk and say something that sounds like a very amused, “Embarrassing,” as he escapes.

Once out of the mess hall, Clint realizes he has no idea where he's going or what he's going to do when he gets there. He wanders the halls feeling like an idiot, wondering if he imagined the entire thing, when Coulson says from behind him, “I didn't think I'd have to draw you a map.” 

Oh hey, Clint's standing in the residential section. Go, subconscious. 

So...that happens, again. At this point Clint decides counting's overrated. He's the passenger of a car driven by his dick while his dick is falling-down drunk, both of his hands braced against the dash, his foot stamping the floormat on an invisible brake pedal. It's simultaneously exhilarating and pants-wettingly terrifying.

In simpler words, he accepts that this is going to keep on happening despite it being a terrible, terrible idea, because he's no longer sure he can stop. Or if he even wants to stop.

**

Clint had a car, once. That's a big deal for New York City, where owning a car is basically an invitation to be stuck in traffic for three-fourths of one's life and to spend the other fourth looking for parking. It's also big for a circus boy from Iowa who's on a number of superhero teams, all of whom fly or drive things that make regular cars look like Model-Ts, so technically he doesn't need one except as a luxury in a life that isn't filled with that many luxuries, jet-setting superhero (haha) though he may be.

Where he got the car from, and how he stopped having one, is a chapter of his life that he's not particularly proud of.

Point is, _Coulson_ has a car. A car Clint would've never known about but for him going down to the SHIELD hangar because that's where he was told he'd find Coulson. He'd rehearsed the conversation in his head: _Want a beer? What do you mean why, can't I just want to get a beer with a friend for no reason?_ If the man's not there or if he says no, Clint can always say he's there to test-fly the upgraded quinjet like the R &D geeks asked.

He goes down there, catches a flash of red in the far corner near the blast doors, goes a bit closer, and someone says quietly, “Hey.” 

Coulson's sitting there, in the front seat of the sweetest ride Clint has ever had the privilege of sitting in.

“This is yours?” he asks, though he doesn't really need to; the casual way Coulson's got both hands on the wheel and is kind of snugged into the seat like his butt grooves in the cushions are molded just right, tells the entire story. 

Coulson grins at him. “Get in.”

Clint's not the man to turn that kind of offer down.

"I had a red car just like this, once," he says wistfully once he's settled, running a hand along the dash. He wonders if Coulson would ever fuck him in it, then looks closer at the upholstery, which is likely made of the skins of lambs born in the first dew of the full moon and probably costs more than Clint's yearly salary, and decides it's probably not going to happen.

“I know.” Coulson makes a rueful face at him. “Some would say Lola's a mid-life crisis kind of car.”

Clint snorts. “Yeah, but she _flies_. Into _space_.”

“That's what I said.”

“Can I drive her?”

Coulson gives a full-on laugh at that, that though Clint knows it probably means no, makes him warm inside. "Didn't I just say that I know you _had_ a car just like this?"

"Come on, cheap shot,” Clint protests. “You let Nat drive. Have you seen her drive? I'd like to take this opportunity to point out she learned to drive in Mother Russia, where drivers routinely have dashcams as witnesses in case other equally terrible drivers hit them."

“l can't argue with that. At any rate, Romanov's banned at the moment, and you learned to drive in the circus. Not what I'd call a rousing endorsement.”

“I fly quinjets, I'll have you know. Without scratches, even. Most of the time.”

Coulson's chuckle is low and warm as he leans back in his seat, obviously settling in to work on his back grooves too. “I'll think about it.” 

Clint chooses to take that as a win.

**

A few weeks later, Clint's in Seoul. The wrong end of November, it's cold of the OH-MAMA-IT'S-REALLY-FUCKING-COLD variety so on the one hand, he's really looking forward to leaving day after next for warmer climes (specifically Australia, but honestly Clint will take anywhere even five degrees warmer than here), but on the other hand, he's going to really miss Korean street food. 

It's also dark. Everything looks the same at night, so he gets off the last train of the night at the wrong stop by mistake. While he's peering dismally out the gate at the blowing snow and debating the merits of either waiting for the first morning train with the hungover party kids presently puking in the garbage cans at the other end of the station or hoofing it several blocks in the freezing cold, he notices a little souvenir kiosk.

At first he doesn't know why it caught his eye, crammed as it is in a dingy corner between a closed newsstand and a Starbucks. But it's still open; as he looks he spies a little wooden bird sitting on display, brightly colored and goggle-eyed, cute and kitschy at the same time, looking kinda like a hawk but carved roughly or badly enough that it could be anything. Without stopping to think about it, he buys it.

He leaves the bird on Coulson's desk at the Triskelion.

It occurs to him much later that everything in Coulson's office had a thick coating of dust, and on the heels of that realization, that he doesn't actually know how often Coulson goes back to his office, if ever. He groans aloud where he stands in the middle of the New York subway, the sheer insanity of what he just did seizing him. Fortunately it's New York; a rough-looking guy suddenly talking to himself isn't anything worth notice, so no one pays him any mind even when he starts banging his forehead against the window of the subway car.

It's almost a relief when Loki gets bored again and decides to be an asshole just to be an asshole (again), nearly enough that it's almost worth being turned into pandas. It's not _quite_ worth having Thor sulking around the Tower for weeks like a deified thundercloud – unwashed, greasy hair hanging in his face, food stuck to his beard, muttering things about nature versus nurture – because when Thor is unhappy, especially about his psycho yet undeniably imaginative brother, he brings everyone else down like a polluting fugue. But at least it keeps Clint busy, and if he stays busy, he can almost forget about the stupid gift. 

He sees Coulson a couple weeks later, before they both go their separate ways again on missions to opposite ends of the world, but Coulson makes no mention of it.

Clint's not sure how to feel about that. Maybe relief, but that doesn't materialize either.

**

Clint unlocks his apartment door, sniffing the air for the telltale sour aroma of dishes left too long in the sink or trash he forgot to throw out before he was called out for duty. It's better that Lucky's gone, he decided a while ago; Lucky was more of Kate's dog towards the end anyway, or maybe even the entire building's as if the mutt's some kind of timeshare. Anyway, it isn't like Clint's ever home long enough to have even plants, much less a living, breathing being without the thumbs to dial delivery for itself. 

The door barely closes when two hands shove him into it with a thud that knocks the breath out of his lungs. His arms go up, reacting instantly to break the hold, but then he registers the familiar scent and the feel of Coulson's body – then lips – against his. He quits fighting and melts into it.

“Thank you,” Coulson says into his mouth. It's muffled. It doesn't matter, the conversation doesn't get any further than that; Clint's too busy mangling Coulson's tie and Coulson's too occupied with shoving Clint into his own bedroom for Clint to remember any answering social niceties such as _You're welcome_. It doesn't matter anyway; Coulson evidently doesn't hate the gift, Clint is getting the best sex he's ever had, all is right with the world.

Clint winds up on his stomach. On his bed too, which is nice because sex on a bed never really happened before, someplace not some godforsaken crumbling room with cracks and multi-legged crawly things in the walls, or even a hard, narrow bunk at HQ. Coulson's cock is pushing into him with deep, unhurried strokes, making sure he feels every inch stretching him, pressing all the right places at all the right angles. Clint goes slowly out of his mind until he just gives up and makes embarrassing noises into the pillow every time Coulson bottoms out. 

Broad hands flip him over. Coulson doesn't miss a beat, those searing, unsettling eyes fixed on Clint's face. There's no way Clint can bear the scrutiny for long, so he throws his head back and cant his hips as high as they will go, getting an even better angle so it isn't long before Clint makes even more embarrassing sounds and comes his brains out in a huge, messy wash. 

Clint's floating in the afterglow, still arching up and gasping with the pleasure, when hands thumb his nipples, drawing a shiver, then stroke up his neck into his hair to bury themselves there as Coulson's control finally breaks. The relentless rhythm shatters, the thrusts going choppy. On that perfect final stroke, Coulson leans in and kisses him. 

Kissing after the fact isn't something they've done before. They don't untangle themselves as soon as they catch their breaths to clean up, keeping _dating_ and _friends-with-benefits_ in neat, separate compartments. Instead Coulson's mouth is soft with orgasm, his quick breaths shared with Clint as Clint can't resist kissing back, relishing Coulson's weight on him, heavy and comforting, reaching to feel as much skin as he can. It's not the most demanding kiss he's ever had, even though he's still bent nearly in half, but this is different, more intense, leaving him both breathless and...weirdly, comfortable. He can't seem to tear himself away. 

**

It turns into a thing after that, each vying to find the tackiest, ugliest totchke any given nation can produce and exchanging them like demented love letters.

Next mission is Hawaii. After wrestling mutated chickens back into the secret SWORD lab they escaped from during a hurricane (not nearly as awesome as it sounds), he finds one of those dancing hula girl bobble statues in the airport gift shop. He brings it back to base and finds a snowglobe of the Eiffel Tower with googly eyes wedged into one of his spare boots. This is followed, over the next few months, by a succession of fake arrowheads (New Mexico), some kind of stuffed camel (Iran), a decorative conical hat (Vietnam), and a violently pink t-shirt with purple wolves emblazoned against snowy mountains (Alaska). It's evident Coulson has more of a jet-setting life than he does.

Just to be clear, they're not _love_ letters. 

Maybe not for Coulson, Clint amends. For him it's probably simpler, something amusing to kill time with that ends in sex. Just blowing off steam, then they go back to being nothing but professional colleagues in between. But Clint will always be the first to admit that time and time again, he's absolutely terrible at keeping his heart from wandering off like a hyperactive toddler and attaching itself to people's legs.

He's also terrible at metaphors, so sue him.

These are all the reasons Clint knows it was a bad idea to get involved with Coulson to begin with and an even worse one to continue. But Clint's an adult and a professional – though possibly not a professional adult – and will deal with it. Is dealing with it. Is dealing with it so well that, in fact, Nat limits the weird looks to when she knows he knows she's looking, Jessica still gives him the cold shoulder (that's cool too, he knows he deserves it), and Fury only threatens him the once.

Hill just fixes him with a glare during one of their private briefings and raps out, “Is this going to be a problem?”

“Is what going to be a problem?” he replies, blinking innocently even though he knows exactly what she's talking about. There's nothing else that can possibly be a Clint problem in her view besides his detente with Jessica, and they've had that particular conversation already. It'd ended with Hill telling him he’s not even officially on the team, so why shouldn’t she just kick his ass off the Helicarrier at 50,000 feet? He'd taken the hint.

“Is that how you're playing it.” She fixes him with a predatory eagle's stare. “Pretty-boy village idiot isn't a good look for you, Barton.” She turns away and flips to the next schematic before he can muster a response. Too many of their exchanges go like this, Clint reflects; Hill starts conversations like she's signing articles of war and then ends them with flat declaratives that he can never tell are lies or fact but feel like a bucketful of ice water in the face every time. 

Nick Fury's alternate-universe son: Scary, check.

Director Hill: Scarier. Check, check, double check.

Then to cap off his week, MODOK ambushes him. 

If there's ever an experience Clint never needs in his life and will go to unashamedly great lengths to avoid in the future, it's MODOK having opinions about Clint in general, and about Clint's love life in specific. While asking for advice on his own. 

If Clint's life were a movie, he thinks at moments like this, it'd be some weird arthouse flick. Monochrome but for meaningfully specific splashes of color, lots of moody people standing around dramatically in the rain and smoking cigarettes, over-earnestly alternating between captions and actual speech. 

And it'd have a lot of sad clowns.

**

Rio de Janeiro happens, then the mountains of Tibet. The markets of Tikrit. An especially shitty stint in the Cambodian jungle that involves ancient ruins and way more leeches in sensitive places that he wants to never think about again. Clint still isn’t okay with that mind-wipe crap that Hill finally gave up on, but he’ll make an exception for those fucking leeches. 

Also, while he's at it, the brain-melting image of MODOK perched weeping on Clint's crappy sofa, looking for all the world like Humpty Dumpty's uglier twin about to take a great fall.

There are normal Avengers missions, of course, along with Clint's personal problems of the tracksuit kind and his part-time protege taking off for a sabbatical in Los Angeles with his dog. _That's_ a metaphor for his whole life right there, Clint managing to convince even a dog that gets its snout stuck in tomato cans on a fairly regular basis that Clint's terrible at relationships. 

It's little wonder Clint is a workaholic. He doesn't have to think about personal things and the muddles he perpetually gets himself into while he's being dangled over a volcano by a sentient tyrannosaur.

Then Clint gets himself thrown through the large plate-glass window of a comic book shop in Edinburgh. 

Two days later, he leaves the card tucked into the pocket of Coulson's jacket while the man's wearing it. Clint's pretty pleased with himself for that sleight of hand, even if he can't tell Nat about it because then she'll start asking all kinds of uncomfortable questions with that weird, rather frightening smile on her face that shows entirely too many teeth.

Still, he's excited to see how Coulson will take this one. The card's not worth much, smudged and gnawed around the edges like a young child loved it a lot or the family dog had a go at it, but he knows Coulson's a gigantic nerd for all things Captain America no matter how good Coulson thinks he is at hiding it. He's got three modes as far as Clint can tell: Official Badass in a Tie, Official Badass Who Will Kill You With His Tie, and Rabid Nerd, that calm, almost bemused veneer that always seems about to crack into a goofy fucking grin that Clint still can't believe exists. 

Clint's hoping for a glimpse of option three. It's just that adorable.

If not, well – maybe he can get Coulson to do that thing with his tongue that pretty much rewrites Clint's religion every time he does it.

“You're not as dumb as you let on,” Coulson says, breaking into his reverie. The comment, out of the blue and spoken in that same deceptively calm voice like they're discussing the weather, shocks Clint into silence mid-sentence. 

They're sitting around a little cafe in a village somewhere in Provence, playing tourist while keeping an eye on a woman who's supposed to be some kind of AIM mastermind. Clint had said absently, his attention entirely on the fact that Coulson currently isn't wearing _that_ jacket and feeling inexplicably put out about it, _What do you need me for, you don’t need me to shoot anything_. 

It isn't a stupid thing to say even if Clint isn't just running his mouth. The Secret Avengers pair off according to skill and compatibility so unsurprisingly, most of the time Clint's on his own. But when Fury’s occupied, it’s Clint and Coulson. Because he’s the muscle, and Coulson’s the brains, and it works out great.

“Not counting your obvious skills,” Coulson's tone remains mild to the untrained ear, but Clint can tell he's been wanting to say this for a long time. “You're fluent in Spanish and ASL. You speak passable if sometimes hilariously insulting Cantonese. You're also resourceful and an excellent strategist and no matter what Director Hill says, she knows, I know, and everyone whose opinion matters knows that you're a major asset to the Avengers and SHIELD." He stops, recollecting himself, then continues more slowly, "The only thing I can't figure out is why you bother pretending otherwise.”

Clint's cheeks are aflame. “Is that our target walking away?” he says at last.

It's a deflection and he knows Coulson knows it, but Coulson gives only a disapproving hum, studying Clint for a long moment as if waiting for a better response. When he doesn't get one, disappointment flicks across his face before it settles into its usual serene lines again. He puts down his wine glass. “Let's go.”

There's a sharp, unmistakable crack then, dust puffing in sharp counterpoint from the ground. They react instantly, throwing themselves out of their chairs and rolling for cover. A muzzle flash from the opposite rooftop accompanies something sharp and burning that grazes Clint's neck like a red-hot needle before he lands on his shoulder, cracking it against the cobblestones.

Another gunshot misses him entirely, then another ricochets off the low retaining wall next to his head before he can take the sniper out. Only then does he realize the sniper wasn't aiming for him at all.

He whirls around, barely registering the sniper's limp body falling off the edge of the roof to land with a crunching thud across the dusty plaza. The spit dries to dust in his mouth. Coulson's laying sprawled only feet away next to the overturned table, trying to turn over but falling back each time as if his strings have been cut. Blood bubbles on his lips. He has glass in his hair and a contemplative, faintly surprised look on his face that would almost be funny except for all the blood.

Things go a little blurry after that.

**

It's got to be a cliché by this point – Clint in a hospital. Hospitals are pretty much the same no matter where you go: the same pukey beige walls, the same annoying _beep beep_ of the monitors that go into a panic if you move even an inch, the same shows on the blurry tv in the corner. Except this time, he's not the one in the bed.

It's a weird feeling. As one of the few non-mutant, non-metahuman members of a high-profile team, being the one sitting by somebody's bedside waiting for them to wake up is not an experience he's had often.

The door opens. Jessica pokes her head in. “How is he?” she asks, waving him back to his seat when he shoots to his feet. 

“He'll be okay. Nothing a lot of surgery and several pints of blood can't fix.”

She gives him a look, her _why can't you be serious for a change_ look. He shrugs, looking back down at his hands where he's mangling that morning's paper into something that's supposed to be a origami fish. Great, this is just great. His ex-girlfriend, to whom he was an utter and complete tool, now in the same room with his – whatever Coulson is, to whom Clint is trying to remember if he was also an utter and complete tool. His ex-girlfriend, who's best friends with his other ex-girlfriend, both of whom in all likelihood heard Clint's ungluing over the comm as he yelled for a medivac _right goddamn now, Phil's dying._

“SHIELD medical transport will be here in about an hour,” she tells him. “It'll take him to DC for treatment.”

He nods.

Instead of taking the next logical, more welcome step of leaving, she says, “So, you and Phil,” then takes a seat right next to him on the hard hospital chairs. 

That's Jess for you, he thinks with chagrin. Direct and blunt, shyness and avoiding embarrassing conversations or even finding less inconvenient times for them are problems for other people who aren't Jess. Generally he finds it refreshing, considering they spend their days wrangling egomaniacal drama-llamas who love to overcomplicate even the simplest things on a global and sometimes even interstellar scale, and their own lives are daytime soaps writ large that keep the tabloids, conspiracy nutjobs, and the twenty-four hour news in a constant froth, but it's not nearly as great when it's directed at _him_. 

“Ah, yeah.” He tries to make it sound the way any friendly conversation about _him and Phil_ should sound, the way _him and Phil_ is supposed to be. As if he can stop remembering the cold fear that seized him at the sight of Coulson lying out there in the hot midday sun, blood thick and coppery on Coulson's hands, his neck, all over his clothes, soaking into the gaps between the cobblestones and limning them in red. The specks of dust collecting on his lashes, settling onto his open, staring eyes as he gasped for breath, a faint spray of blood across one cheek like delicate lace. 

Clint clenches his hands into fists to make them stop shaking. He tries to say something else, anything else, but nothing comes out.

“I see.” The beeping of Coulson's monitors continues, their steady rhythm reassuring as the meaningless numbers and lines tick up and down. He glances at her to find her frowning into space, a faint line creasing her forehead. “I can't say that I saw it coming,” she says at last. “But you know, I can see how it works.”

“We're not like that—“

“Ugh,” she exclaims, rounding on him. He flinches as she crowds into his space, words coming fast as the facade of calm detachment drops away. “Do not start that. Just do not. Do you like being miserable?" Her face works like she just has too much to say and not nearly enough words to say them in. She settles for a hissed, "Just...don't. ”

“You know,” he says. She doesn't say anything else, just keeps glaring at him. “The way we ended. What I did.” 

He stops, remembering Coulson saying, _You're not as dumb as you let on,_ and also, _I can't figure out why you bother._ And the answer Clint should have given, what he'd been thinking about before she came in: _It's just easier._ If he digs deeper: _If no one wants anything from me, then they can't be disappointed._ And if he's brutally honest with himself, just rips himself open to the searing light of day: _It hurts less when I don't want anything._

He fingers the tattered paper in his hand. “I'm sorry, is my point. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You--” she stops with a glance at Coulson, then continues in a lower voice. “Okay, you know what? It's okay. I'm over it, mostly. So here's some free advice, because I'm tired of watching you do this. Listen up. Are you listening? The easiest way, Clint, to get what you want is to just fucking _ask_.” She gestures in Coulson's direction, meaningfully, and raises both eyebrows. 

He can only blink at her, which seems to exasperate her even further. “You idiot,” she mutters, leaning back again to swipe at her nose. "You're lucky the puppy face works for you, god knows why." Her irritation gone, she looks tired, her hair stringy and eyes shadowed like she's been at the hospital for a while, maybe camped out in the corridor. On impulse, he gropes his hand out and takes hers.

She freezes with surprise. For a moment, Clint's sure she's going to smack him, then her face softens. They sit there for several minutes before she pulls her hand away. “Okay,” she says. “Fine. But don't go thinking you're off the hook.” But she smiles.

**

When Jess leaves to meet the transport on the roof, he studies Coulson's profile in the dim light filtering through the window. 

Everything would've been fine, if Coulson hadn't gotten shot. They would've continued the way they were, Clint watching the way Coulson's shoulders move in that tailored suit, studying his eyes in the sunlight and trying to decide what color they really are. Trying to get Coulson to crack one of his non-smiles, or better yet, an actual smile. Meeting each other eyes briefly during meetings. Eating meals together like friends. Sleeping together like lovers. 

Well, maybe not. The odds of Coulson getting shot at some point were – are – pretty high, considering his employment choices and the company he keeps, so maybe Clint was okay with the status quo up until Coulson got inevitably shot.

Yeah, that doesn't make any sense even to himself.

Coulson's hand is limp, lying on the rough hospital blanket. He reaches out and touches it, expecting Coulson to suddenly wake up and ask him what the hell he's doing. 

Coulson doesn't. 

Coulson’s nails are blunt and neat, his fingers calloused in the right places after a lifetime carrying firearms and in some other places that never occurred to Clint before to ask him about. His hand is broad, with big knuckles that are slightly misshapen the way they get when you punch a lot of things. There's a scar over his index and middle fingers as if they were scored by a knife a long time ago. His skin is warm.

**

In hindsight, breaking into Coulson's apartment to get the card back was a bad idea. Maybe Coulson found the card after all and didn't say anything to Clint for his own reasons. Maybe the jacket in question got shredded in a trek down the Amazon River, or the card was accidentally chucked in the wash with the jacket and ruined. Maybe Coulson has other apartments that aren't on file at SHIELD and Clint isn't on the 'need to know' list. 

Maybe, just maybe, Clint will actually find the goddamn thing and he can get out of here before he can no longer fool even himself that he's not some kind of weirdo burglar. 

Coulson's apartment looks like a Pier 31 showroom. It’s as if the man just walked into the store, stopped at the first display and told them he'd take it, down to the chased silver bowl of fake fruit and the decorative floor vase in the corner with fake bamboo spikes artistically arranged in it.

Clint doesn't know what he expected. He knows that the man doesn't go home much, spending what spare time he has either at HQ or... actually, Clint doesn't know where Coulson goes, just that the blanket of dust is as thick here, or maybe thicker, than it was in his office. The only signs of any kind of real habitation are a supremely over-complicated espresso machine in the kitchen, a wide bookshelf of well-thumbed books in the living room, and of course, the military-neat walk-in closet in the equally squared-away bedroom. It's as if Coulson only comes to his apartment to sleep and to stash away books, like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter.

The jacket isn't here, Clint determines after searching with increasing desperation through what has to be no less than fifteen identical black jackets. Maybe he should get Coulson ties for souvenirs instead; going by the truly mind-boggling number of ties, life in a black suit and semi-occasionally SHIELD fatigues is pretty boring as far as sartorial variety goes. 

The kitchen warrants only a cursory glance; the odds of Coulson keeping anything not food-related in there is likely low, but for the sake of completion he gives it a toss. Dishwasher, cabinets, and fridge, empty of course; the sink is spotless, the coffee machine gleaming. The bookcase in the living room, on the other hand – that's a thing of glory. Any and all genres are featured there on the bookcase that spreads the length of an entire wall, including a section just for comic books. Dog-eared paperbacks, sedate leather-bound first editions, pulp novels, Coulson isn't picky. Clint knows he should get going while the getting is good, but the library draws him like a siren call. 

He runs his hands reverently over the spines, then takes a book down and turns it over in his hands. He can just see Coulson unwinding after a long day with a battered paperback, sitting on that stylishly modern armchair across the room, thick black glasses perched on his nose. The image makes Clint smile.

Behind him, someone says, “I suppose you're here to feed my invisible cat." Clint's heart gives one hard thud and tries for a suicide leap out his chest. He whirls to find Coulson giving him a quizzical look from the doorway. 

Against the warm rush of relief that fills his chest at the sight of him and steals his breath, Clint tries to come up with a reply that's not _Cats, I like cats_ or _I'm totally not stalking you_ or even better, _Can I smell you, you always smell good._ He opts instead to drop the book and, pacing very calmly across the room at Coulson to grab his lapels with both fists, inexorably pulls him in. The man was whisked away less than a week ago to SHIELD Medical, but Coulson looks not at all like he'd been shot twice in the torso in places where holes are generally incompatible with life. At some point Clint's going to want to know what kind of miracle's been pulled, but for now, he just wants to...feel him.

And yes, maybe smell him.

“I was – just – uh, you look nice,” Clint says after a pause in which he totally, totally doesn’t nuzzle him. “Better than nice. Good, you look good. Are you okay?” He's honestly not this brain-dead most of the time, Coulson and the rest of the secret team just make him feel like this. Give him anybody else – Tony, Wanda, Scott, Peter, Pietro, whoever, and he's cool, but this particular team's roster seems custom-made to make him feel like a stuttering teenager marinated in hormones instead of one of the goddamn founding members of the original Avengers.

“You know, I've been having these interesting conversations,” Coulson says casually as they stay pressed together in the middle of the living room like it's totally normal, “With everyone. About us. ”

This sends a chill through Clint. Conversations about them, plural, can't ever be good. He pulls back as much as Coulson will let him. “Was it MODOK? I bet it was MODOK. Look, that guy's not exactly what I'd call an expert on human nature, and he was asking just so many personal questions—” 

Now Coulson's wrinkling his forehead at him like he's lost his mind. He continues with increasing desperation, “I don't think you should listen too much to what people think. I mean, I know what people think they know, but what they think they know isn't important.” He'd thought he'd reached an understanding with Jess, but –

“Barton,” Coulson says. He doesn't raise his voice. The pulse in his neck jumps but he also looks like he wants to laugh. “Let me finish.”

“See, there's that thing where you call me by my last name, it tells me loud and clear where you stand. So how about I don't let you finish, and we can make out instead.”

“Clint.” Still in that too-mild voice. 

Clint sighs loudly. “Okay, what everybody says about me, especially Nat and Jess, is probably true, but —” He's rendered at a loss for words when Coulson interrupts, heat and amusement warring in his tone, “I found the card.”

Whatever he's going to say in reply is lost as Coulson kisses him then, and man, he's good at that. It's unfair when Clint is trying to be coherent.

“I was – ah – going to take it back and then give it to you in person like adults, instead of this weird Easter egg hunt thing we've been do—fuck!” He promptly forgets his train of thought because _yes_ , he needs Coulson's hands all over him, rucking up his shirt, raking the curve of his neck with his teeth. Coulson's tie suddenly becomes a very useful handhold to keep himself upright when, having thrown Clint's t-shirt on the floor, Coulson pushes his entire solid length into him and snugs a thigh into his crotch.

He wants Coulson so bad he aches with it. He wants it the way they started, what he sometimes fantasizes about late at night, pushed up against something and made to come his brains out with barely a hand on him – but _just ask_ keeps ringing in his head. So he wrenches his hands away from where they're rather unashamedly mauling Coulson's ass without regard to the probably supremely expensive fabric, tries to reclaim himself from the intensity of Coulson's kiss and the shiver of teeth and swipe of tongue, to pant, “I want. Can we – bed?” It's kind of nice that they're the same height; Coulson just mumbles something again and leans back in to slide back into that mind-blowing kissing that Clint almost forgets what he was trying to ask. “I want – you. Bed too. Everything. Yeah?” 

Coulson wrinkles his eyes at him in that understated almost-laugh and starts backing him across the living room. They bump into the coffee table as they go, knocking remote controls onto the floor, then nearly fall over an ottoman. It should be embarrassing but Coulson just laughs into his mouth and Clint finds himself chuckling with him. They're both smiling as they finally land on Coulson's bed. 

“Just so you know, MODOK approves. Maybe a little too much. I tell you this so we never need to talk about him in relation to us ever again.” This is accompanied by a slow suck just below Clint's earlobe. 

“Okay,” Clint nods. He's going to agree to anything Coulson says at this point, as long as the long, slow, delirious kissing keeps happening. Not even the mention of the egghead can bring him down from Coulson saying _us_ , as if they've been _us_ from the beginning.

He winds up between Coulson's splayed legs, that long, perfect cock in his mouth. He's grown to crave it sliding inside of him, with the little upthrust and press at the end that makes him want to grab his ankles and beg, but jesus christ, he needs to do this more with Coulson. To Coulson. The sight of him, head thrown back against the pillow, fisting the sheets and thighs flexing restlessly with the need to arch into Clint's mouth, then lifting his head again like he can't get enough of the sight of Clint concentrating on sucking his cock, is something Clint knows he will crave for the rest of his life. 

Coulson gasps, his hands tighten. Clint chokes a little. It's not like he's had a lot of experience with this; it's a lot harder than it looks to just keep the teeth sheathed and even harder to make it look to any degree sexy, much less swallow, but Coulson doesn't seem to care, his hands roaming all over Clint's shoulders, combing through his short cropped hair as he shudders apart under Clint's mouth. 

Then the world upends itself, those strong hands pulling him up from his crouch with some kind of ninja move where Clint lands on his back.

“Ah, fuck,” Clint breathes as Coulson takes him in hand and settles into a punishing, perfect rhythm, head thrown back on the pillow that smells pleasantly of Coulson. There's not much space between their bodies, but Clint worms his hand in and palms over his, spreads his legs wide, cants his hips up. He wants Coulson's cock inside him, heck he'll even take fingers, but in the last of his frying mind he knows that he's not going to, can't stop this even if he wanted to.

As if reading his mind, a slick finger probes at his entrance, then pushes inside. Clint comes with a shout.

He drifts. Then he blinks for several minutes before he realises that Coulson's moulded against him, mouthing behind his ear. “This is a bad idea,” he mumbles into the pillow. He's vaguely aware that right after sex is no time to be having a heart-to-heart, but he's taking a page out of Jessica's playbook, the part where _not a good time_ is better than _never._

Coulson stops doing whatever he's doing to Clint's ear. “What are we talking about?”

“This. You and me. You know.”

“'This.' You're going to have to be more specific.”

It's too quiet, the place excellently sound-proofed even in mid-town Manhattan. All he can hear is the sound of their breathing and the tick of the clock on the dresser. It's easier to say what he needs to say into the pillow. “I kinda really like you,” he groans at himself; he couldn't sound more like a love-sick teenager if he tried. “But you're not looking for that kind of thing, I know. And my track record's not exactly what I'd call spectacular.”

“I'm aware that your love life should go on Wikipedia's list of famous train derailments.”

“Gee, thanks,” Clint mumbles, burying himself back into the pillow. Maybe it's possible to suffocate himself with it. “Thanks a million. I just thought you should know. And if you totally don't feel that way, don't worry, I'm really good at just keeping it professional after, but I really hope I didn't just fuck this all up cuz we should've ended this probably ten billion sex times ago, but knowing me--”

He freezes when Coulson replies, “Your excellent timing regarding post-coital topics of conversation aside, I thought we were already having that 'kind of thing.'” Coulson sounds more amused than anything. The hand on Clint's hips resumes their stroking down his side, which tickles, counting the bumps of his ribs.

Clint slowly pulls the pillow out of his mouth, the beginnings of a smile twitching at his mouth. “I'll pay you with blowjobs if you never say 'post-coital' again.” 

“Post-coital.”

Clint flops over in indignation to find Coulson propped up on an elbow, smirking at him. “That's better,” Coulson says. Then he says, “Stay the night,” like it's nothing, but his eyes tell another story.

Clint grins up at the ceiling. He can't stop. "What a coincidence,” he murmurs. “I don't think I can move anyway.”

Coulson's warm chuckle follows him down into sleep.


End file.
